


A Chance at Redemption

by BiJane



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post Regeneration, Regeneration, Spoilers, cliffhanger resolution, episode s09e01 The Magician's Apprentice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4833236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiJane/pseuds/BiJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missy had regenerated in so many ways. She’d been male, female; she’d been less than human on one occasion.</p>
<p>In all her centuries, however, she’d never regenerated into someone with a conscience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Chance at Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of bits of this may end up out of canon. I wrote this in one sitting after seeing the episode, considering one idea that's always interested me about the personality changes that result from a regeneration.  
> I could probably go on forever about the basic idea, but for now just enjoy this episode!  
> If you want to imagine her, just imagine she regenerated to look exactly like Michelle Gomez's Missy. Ten regenerated into himself, Romana II did, I see no reason why we should lose such a fantastic character. Just with a few changes. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Missy remembered regenerating. She’d done it so many times.

She remembered having her own weapon turned against her. She remembered falling into darkness. She remembered stealing a body: and remembered burning. She remembered Daleks, and she remembered the War, and she remembered exhaustion. She remembered fleeing her people.

And a Dalek grated its cry, and she fell, and she felt the so-familiar energies of regeneration threaten to overflow-

And she held them back. There was no point: the Daleks would simply fire again.

She _hated_ Daleks. One thing she had in common with him. Doddering tin cans, no fun at all.

And then Clara ran, and they were distracted for one instant. She did the best she could, she tried to rush: forcing all her willpower into her regeneration.

_Fast. Quick. Make me look similar. Make me look dead._

Eminently practical.

The energy exploded from her in the barest instant, and Missy closed her eyes. Still female: she could feel that. She could feel, too, her tongue sitting uncomfortably in her mouth, and a mildly irritatingly placed lung.

Hopefully her hair was the same colour. Hopefully her build was the same. The Daleks could be dreadfully unobservant sometimes. Arrogance was quite literally programmed into them.

The superior race: better than everything. All it really meant was they refused to believe they could be tricked.

She thought of the Daleks, and she had the first inkling that this regeneration might not have gone as well as she’d hoped.

She thought of the Daleks, and thought of their genocides, their grating cries of _exterminate_ and their endless crusade against anything different. She felt anger, she felt wariness; all the things she expected.

And then she felt pity. The trillions upon trillions of lives and species lost, of unique lights extinguished because one fool decided to enhance his people.

She felt sadness. Lives lost, each irreplaceable, each unique.

And Missy lay still, hurriedly suppressing her breathing.

She’d regenerated in so many ways. She’d been male, female; she’d been less than human on one occasion. In all her centuries, however, she’d never regenerated into someone with a conscience.

And Missy, who had once been known as the Master, looked back at her past, and at her life, and it burned.

* * *

 

The Daleks glided smoothly from the room, and Missy didn’t know what to do.

She was beginning to feel: and feel things she’d never had to deal with before. She remembered the Untempered Schism, and the horrors she’d seen within; she remember pushing certain thoughts and feelings down. She remembered ignoring the parts of her that screamed at what she saw.

Time was merciless. The fundamental to all the universe cared nothing. It had appalled her, then.

And her regenerations had been kind. They’d helped; they’d pushed those thoughts aside. No need to pity, no need to feel compassion.

Maybe she’d caused that. There were stories of Time Lords and Ladies able to influence the form they regenerated to. There were many known ways to choose your next form: Karn, or the blessing of the High Council.

But this time she’d rushed. This time it had gone too quickly, and gone wrong. And-

“I don’t know your name,” Missy said, low. Her voice cracked. “I don’t know any of your names.”

She had once. She’d forgotten. She’d never cared.

Somehow that felt worse, now, than all the murders and all the crimes. There was no reason for any of it. Nothing except _I could_ or _I was bored_. She’d never wanted any of it, really, she’d just never cared enough to stop.

Then: “Clara,” she said.

That name she remembered. The only name.

No, there was another.

“Doctor,” she said: and balled one hand into a fist, and pushed herself up from the cold ground.

She had a vortex manipulator. She always made sure to keep a few of those on her person; they always could come in handy. With one look up at the empty room, she reached for her manipulator, and vanished.

* * *

 

Missy couldn’t really say where she was: just that it felt better. Safer. No Daleks, no anything.

She remembered one time she’d been to this planet. A failed regeneration had left her haggard, barely humanoid, a skeletal, ragged mess struggling to so much as breathe.

It seemed as good a place as any to work this out. This felt like another failed regeneration. It certainly didn’t feel like a success.

She didn’t feel like herself. Normally there was some fundamental similarity, something that stayed in common from one regeneration to the next. _Something_.

Now she couldn’t so much as think of herself.

She remembered Autons. She remembered summoning those plastic abominations to Earth, so caught up in the giddiness of pain she’d neglected to consider that she’d be a target. She remembered all manner of monstrosities she’d ferried throughout the universe, some of which had made her shudder even then.

The pain she’d caused: oh, the pain. It had been entertainment to her. That was all, but she’d loved it.

Now her eyes stung, and something in her, something she couldn’t pinpoint, _ached_.

She’d done that. If she thought about it, she couldn’t begin to comprehend what she’d wrought. The nightmares people had been made to live through, the families shattered, because she _could_.

She couldn’t understand that pain, even with her new faculty. She couldn’t even begin to. And yet she’d caused it, she’d been behind all of that.

Missy stood up.

This world was a barren one. Rocks and cliffs and pebbles. She strode forward, with what little purpose she could muster, and reached the brink of the nearest cliff.

She couldn’t face it. Morality was never part of her, it shouldn’t be part of this life. This regeneration was a fluke. A one-off. A coincidence.

It wouldn’t last. She could write it off as a wasted life.

She _couldn’t_. She couldn’t live with what she’d done, not if she had to keep that same, maddening conscience.

_Why?_ Why did she need to receive one? _Why?_

This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just: and it would be so, so easy to end. One more step, forget this regeneration ever happened. Forget the pain, and the guilt, and the so-many faces that had all blurred together.

She couldn’t remember names: she couldn’t remember faces. She couldn’t remember anything, except _she had killed_.

One more step. It would only take one more step.

Missy hesitated.

There was a voice in the back of her head. That was new too. It spoke, softer, but more insistent than even the drumbeats had been.

_You can’t. It wouldn’t be right_.

Since when had she cared about right?

_It doesn’t matter what used to be. What matters is now: and you care about now_.

I can’t bear this.

_You can. You will. You always find a way._

Missy remained poised at the edge. Staring. It would still be so easy to fall: to silence the voice, to quash the burning.

_You can make it better. Save lives, rather than take._

Right, like the universes needed another Doctor. She wasn’t cut out for that. She enjoyed the planning, the lead-up; his chaotic life would never be for her.

_Then don’t be a Doctor_.

The Master. Her name was a promise, but it could still mean so many things. And promises could be broken.

But nothing would be enough.

_One thing would_.

She’d scoured most of the universe just because she was bored. A third of the stars had twinkled out because of her, all their respective worlds perishing. More blood on her hands than on anyone else’s.

_Almost anyone_.

True. There was the Daleks. Their particular brand of cruelty was ruthless, and unforgiving: and the Doctor couldn’t be on every world. And they had turned their sights to beyond the universe; they’d crushed more than she could be bothered to reach.

_And Davros had the screwdriver._

Her newly-found conscience still screamed at her. Still pleaded for her to end this, to be free of all she’d done: but that voice, that gentle whisper, overruled it. And screamed at her to think, to plan like she loved to.

She could do better. She could _be_ better.

Where would the Doctor have gone?

Missy stepped back from the edge, and peered at her vortex manipulator again.

* * *

 

A desolate plain. Smoke wafted across it, the scent of cannonfire staining the air. A war gone on so long planes were fought off with bows and arrows, and the most advanced technology still involved was a relic. Hands that reached out from the dirt.

Missy hopped neatly over the ground, moving from rock to rock, keeping her eyes peeled. A little of her old playfulness was apparent; it was hard not to be caught up in the jauntiness of the movement required for crossing the mined quarry.

A hop, a skip, a jump. She could see blue in the distance: blue against grey.

“You said I had a chance!” the child’s voice resounded, alone. Then: “Who are you? I don’t get it.”

Missy hurried, just a little.

“How did you get there?”

“From the future,” and it was his voice. She moved faster.

The child’s eyes barely drifted, intent on the Doctor. When there was anger in his eyes, it was so very hard to look away.

“Are you going to save me?” the child said. Trepidation.

That child. Missy could see green in his hand: the screwdriver the Doctor no longer carried.

“I’m going to save my friend,” the Doctor said. “The only way I can,” a weapon hefted up: “Exterminate!”

His tone dropped: a hollow parody of the creatures he detested. And before he could do anything: before he could fire, or reorient his aim, or do the slightest thing, he felt a hand on his arm.

“Come now dear,” Missy said, “You never would. Stop wasting time.”

The Doctor jumped; glanced sideways.

She wondered how she looked to him. Certainly, he could recognize her. But how was her face? Did it resemble how she used to be?

She felt the same; or she would do, if not for that burning. She’d focused on trying to look as similar as possible, maybe it had worked.

“You,” he said: staccato.

She offered a hand; held the barrel of the gun gently. The boy Davros looked between the two of them, clearly scared.

“Me. Of course be,” she rolled her eyes; “You think I’d die like that? You really don’t know me at all, do you? I’m disappointed.”

“You’re here,” he said.

There was something in his eyes. Guilt?

That was the thing about the Doctor. He could have been _wonderful_ , to Missy’s mind. To the old Missy’s mind. She could have had such fun with him, terrorized so many worlds with him: just so long as nobody saw him.

As soon as there was a pair of eyes, as soon as there was judgement, he listened, and he changed.

He might well have shot a child, but only if he could forget it. Only if no one would be there to watch him, and to remind him of it every time they met.

“So are you,” Missy said. “Have to say, it doesn’t suit you,” a sigh, then: “Well give it here then, chop chop.”

His arms were limp. The rage possessing him was still there, as ever, but it was far less fearsome in her presence. She pulled the stolen Dalek gun from his arms, and hefted it herself, taking aim. Perhaps he felt it would be easier for her.

“You’re going to?” the Doctor said.

“It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?” Missy said. “One shot. One crook of a finger, and bang! No Davros. No Daleks. No time war, no deaths. All it would take is one dead child.”

She spoke with relish, as though it were a price worth paying. And then that voice in her head chimed again, and she closed her eyes.

Missy turned her head. She faced the Doctor, dropping her façade. She let her pain show, let him see her anguish. Her shame, her suffering, her guilt.

_I have done worse than this child could imagine. The blood on my hands, and the blood that will be on his, is not so different._

His brow raised. The Doctor stepped back, perhaps caught off-guard. The Master with a conscience: with regret.

The lottery of regeneration had a sense of humour, apparently. Missy smiled: she could remember a few of the Doctor’s past selves. When had that ever been in doubt?

_There is one difference. He had more of a reason than me. Not much of one, but he did have a reason. I had none. I killed because I_ could _._

Missy turned her head back to the child Davros, and aimed the gun carefully. His eyes widened in pleading fear: the hand-mines in the earth twitched, preventing him from fleeing.

_I can be different. I can be… not good, but better_.

Missy fired.

_So can he_.

The shot struck the earth, and struck the hands reaching out: she watched with grim satisfaction as they twitched, and burned, wiped clean away.

“What-” the Doctor began. Missy threw the gun down.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” she said. “The Daleks killed me. I might look similar, but I’m not the same. I know you were terrible in class, but do you really need that explained to you?”

“I was not ter-” the Doctor began, instinctively: and paused.

He glanced sideways, towards Davros. The child still stood there, shivering: even with the hand-mines gone, he seemed too scared to move.

“What about him?” he said.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Missy said. “You can go. Let me.”

“But-”

“But what? You’re terrible at sticking around. We both know it.”

She turned, swiftly ignoring the Doctor, and patted her lap.

“Come on, Davros wasn’t it?”

“You’re-” the Doctor said.

Impatiently, Missy grabbed the Doctor’s hand, and pulled it up: touched it to the side of her head.

In the second that followed, she concentrated. She forced every one of her thoughts to the surface, every flicker of pain since she’d regenerated. The conscience she knew not what to do with, and the voice she found she couldn’t help but listen to.

She could never redeem herself: but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be better. There were more ways to save the world than genocide.

Master was a promise, just as Mistress was. To control, to dominate: and also to teach.

There was no need to kill Davros: only to make him better. Perhaps end this war early, before the Daleks would come into being. There was no denying Davros would grow to be a genius; he could be a tremendous force for good.

He just needed the right chance: the right teacher.

The right Master.

The Doctor reeled, trying to come to terms with everything forced into his head. While he did, Missy crouched, dusting Davros off a little, and wiping the smudges from his face.

“That’s better,” she said: smiled. “Spit spot! Can you tell me where your home is?”

Davros raised an arm, mutely pointing over the plains of grey rock and steam.

“Missy,” the Doctor said.

She paused mid-step, and turned her head.

“You’re sure?” he said.

“Of course not. You know me,” she said: smiled. “But I know you, and I know one of us has to stay, and you definitely couldn’t do it.”

“And you’re… It felt liked you cared.”

“Is that so strange?”

“Well, yes.”

Missy laughed: not her usual glee at success, but genuine amusement.

“You left a child to die, I saved their life,” Missy smiled. “We should be used to strange, don’t you think?”

Her conscience still screamed. She still wanted to tear this body away, to shred it if only to be rid of that ache. That knowledge that she was _wrong_ , that everything she had done was _cruel_ and _evil_ and _wicked_ and _bad_.

That voice wouldn’t let her end it so easily, though. If she couldn’t be free by choosing another life, then she’d simply have to make it more bearable.

And as Missy, who had once been the Master, walked along the blasted plains of Skaro, she looked down at the child Davros who held her hand. She looked at the boy whose future might have held the creation of the Daleks, and the death and the screams that would entail.

And she walked on, hoping that she would teach him to be better. She knew the signs of evil all too well. Perhaps that meant she could also prevent them arising.

For the first time since her regeneration, the ache lessened, and it felt as though what she was doing was right.


End file.
